


A Page Turner

by Persiflage



Series: Mashed Up Tropes Fics [18]
Category: Holby City
Genre: Alternate Universe, Bars and Pubs, Bernie Wolfe: World's Okay-est Lesbian, Bookshop, F/F, Flirting, Mash-up, Memoirs, Originally Posted on Tumblr, Serena Campbell: Bisexual Extraordinaire, Trope de Trope, Tumblr Prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-12
Updated: 2020-12-12
Packaged: 2021-03-10 21:07:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,925
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28023672
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Persiflage/pseuds/Persiflage
Summary: Alternate Universe: Serena Campbell has never met Bernie Wolfe until the day she and Jason visit a bookstore where Bernie's signing copies of her newly published memoir.
Relationships: Serena Campbell/Bernie Wolfe
Series: Mashed Up Tropes Fics [18]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1960414
Comments: 8
Kudos: 52





	A Page Turner

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Anon for the Mashed Up Tropes Meme on Tumblr, for the tropes: 6. Bookshop AU and 58. Accidental Eavesdropping

Major Berenice ‘Bernie’ Wolfe sits at the signing table, which has only half the stacks of books it had previously held, drinking a cup of coffee, and enjoying a surreptitious sandwich. She has another couple of hours left to sign copies of her book _Surgery in the Shifting Sands: My Life in the RAMC_ – a title she hates with a fiery passion, which her publisher’s marketing team had foisted upon her – but as there’s currently a lull in the proceedings, Henri, the owner of Holby’s only independent bookshop, had insisted on bringing her some lunch. The sandwiches, coffee, and the large slice of cake sitting on a separate plate, are all homemade. Henri’s wife is as splendid a baker as Henri is a bookseller, and Bernie always enjoys a visit to _Page Turners_ when she’s home on leave. These days she’s home in Holby City for good after being forced to take a medically sanctioned retirement from the RAMC: getting blown up by a roadside IED tends to ruin your day, she’d discovered. Rather more than one day, unfortunately. 

The memoir of her life in the RAMC had been Henri and Tony’s idea. Eighteen months ago she’d been visiting them for the first time since her retirement, looking for some books to help while away the long hours as her body slowly healed itself outside of the confines of hospital physio and psychotherapy departments, and Tony had said, quite brightly, “You should write a book, Berenice.”

“Oh, that’s a brilliant idea,” chimed in Henri, a delighted smile on her face.

“Me. Write a book?” Bernie asked doubtfully.

“Of course,” said Tony, her expression thoughtful. “A memoir about being an RAMC trauma surgeon.”

“Who on Earth would want to read such a thing, even if I wrote it?” Bernie could hardly believe her two friends would suggest such a thing. “Also, have you met me? You know I’m rubbish at words. Action woman, that’s me.”

Henri chuckled as she wrapped her arm around Bernie’s shoulders. “We’ll help you, dearest, won’t we Tony?”

“Of course, my darling. Oooh, I know. We’ll convert that empty back room into a study for you. You can sit in there and tap away at your keyboard, and Henri and I will bring you cups of tea or coffee, cake and sandwiches.” Tony looked her up and down in a critical manner. “You need a bit more meat on your bones, dearest. Too skinny by half. You’ll never meet a nice woman if you look as if one puff of wind’ll blow you over.”

“Say yes, dearest. Please?”

Bernie chuckled. “Bonkers, the pair of you, but if it’ll make you happy, I will attempt to write a memoir. God knows, I’ve nothing much else to do with my time now.”

Tony winced at the oblique reference to the end of Bernie’s career and her home life. She’d returned from Afghanistan with a pseudoaneurysm of the right ventricle, an unstable C5/C6 fracture, a traumatised cervical disc in the same area, and the belated (at fifty one) realisation that she was a lesbian. She’d filed for divorce within days of her return, losing both her home and her family since Marcus had immediately turned their children, Cameron and Charlotte, against her in a petty, vindictive mood. He’d lied to Cam and Charlie, telling them that their mother had had a series of lesbian affairs while overseas, and that was why she wanted a divorce. Sometimes Bernie wondered if she’d ever persuade them to listen to the truth of the situation.

“No publisher will ever buy it, though,” Bernie said. “But for the sake of the immeasurable friendship that you two have given to me since I lost my mother, I’ll try.”

“Dearest, you write the book, we’ll sort out an agent and they’ll find a publisher for it.” Henri pressed a kiss to Bernie’s brow, then waltzed away – to begin rearranging the back room, Bernie had learned later.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

As Bernie is finishing up her sandwiches, she can’t help overhearing a young man, around her son Cam’s age she thinks, talking to a woman of about her own age. They’re standing a couple of metres away, looking at the display for her book and several other military biographies.

“ _Surgery in the Shifting Sands_ is a very flowery title,” says the young man, staring at Bernie’s book. 

“It is rather,” agrees the woman. A brunette with a cute dimple in her chin, Bernie can’t help noticing. “Sometimes authors – or to be fairer, publishers – try to make dull books sound more interesting by giving them a flowery title.”

“That’s silly.”

The woman chuckles. “Maybe, love, but you’d be surprised how often it works. Does the back cover say who it’s by?”

“Isn’t it by the woman whose photograph is on the cover?”

“It might be, Jason, but it might not. What does the back cover say?”

The young man picks up a copy and turns it over, but the woman’s still staring at Bernie’s photo, she notices. She’d fought a rearguard action with the publishers over the cover photo as well as the title, but they’d insisted. It is a photo of her in her full dress uniform, medals and all, staring out at the horizon. Her image had been photoshopped (very cleverly, she had to admit) over a backdrop of a distant Afghan city, while in the middle distance an RAMC tent had been superimposed. The whole thing seemed terribly hokey to Bernie, but everyone from the PR and marketing teams, her agent Liv, and Tony and Henri, had loved it, so she’d given in on that score, too.

“It says ‘A memoir by one of the world’s foremost trauma surgeons of an action-filled twenty five year career with the RAMC.’ What’s the RAMC?”

“That’s the Royal Army Medical Corps,” says the brunette, who’s picked up a copy of Bernie’s memoir herself, but she hasn’t opened it, or turned it over to look at the back cover.

“Are you going to buy a copy, Aunty Serena? There’s a note here saying that the author’s signing copies here in the bookshop until four o’clock.” He checks the clunky looking watch on his arm. “It’s only two o’clock now.” Then he turns and spots Bernie, who’s just finishing her slice of chocolate cake. She waggles her fingers at him, aware that her cheeks have flushed pink.

“Look, Aunty Serena, there’s Major Wolfe.”

The brunette, Serena presumably, looks past her nephew, her eyes widening as she takes in Bernie sitting behind the signing table. She’s managed to hide her empty plates and coffee mug behind one of the smaller stacks of books at her left elbow.

“Hello, you must be Major Wolfe,” says the young man, who’s marched across to the table. “My name’s Jason and I have Asperger’s.”

Bernie smiles at him, noting that he hasn’t held out a hand and recalling that many people on the Autism Spectrum don’t like to be touched.

“Hello Jason, pleased to meet you. Yes, I’m Major Wolfe, but call me Bernie.”

He frowns. “It says here that your name is Major Berenice Wolfe.”

“It is, but I prefer to be called Bernie. Berenice sounds very grand.”

“It does. What does it mean?”

“Jason, love, don’t pester the poor woman.” His aunt has joined him at the table, still holding a copy of Bernie’s book.

“It’s quite alright,” Bernie says. “He’s not pestering me at all. To answer your question, Jason, Berenice means ‘bringer of victory’. It’s a Greek name. There’s also an asterism, which means a collection of stars, called Coma Berenices, that’s with an S on the end, which can be seen in the northern sky. Its name means "Berenice's Hair" in Latin and it’s a reference to Queen Berenice II of Egypt, who sacrificed her long hair as a votive offering.”

“What’s a ‘votive offering’?”

Bernie smiles at him. “A votive offering is an object that's displayed or deposited, without any intention of recovering or using it, in a sacred place for religious purposes. They're generally made in order to gain favour with supernatural forces, such as gods.”

“You know a lot of things,” Jason says, biting his lip and frowning in thought. “I like that.”

Bernie chuckles softly. “I have an eclectic mind. Do you know what eclectic means?”

He shakes his head vigorously, pushing his glasses back up the bridge of his nose with his finger.

“It means you get information from a lot of different sources. I loved reading the encyclopaedia as a child, but sometimes the words in it were too hard to understand, so I would look them up in the dictionary. I often found myself getting sidetracked while looking things up in the dictionary and would read the meanings of other words as well as the one I wanted to know. I read a lot as a child, so I have lots of information from different sources.”

“I like reading, too.” 

“I sort of thought you might,” Bernie says, smiling. “You did come to a bookshop today, after all.”

“I want to read your book,” Jason states firmly.

“Even though the title is flowery?” she teases.

“Yes,” he says, even more firmly. 

“Okay. And would you like me to sign it for you?”

“Do I have to pay more for it to be signed?”

“Not at all.”

“Yes please.”

He puts the book down on the table and she slides it towards herself, then picks up her pen. 

“What would you like me to write?”

He shrugs, looking a little helpless. “I don’t know. I’ve never had a book signed before.”

“That’s okay, Jason,” Bernie says soothingly, sensing the idea is stressful to him. “I know what to write.”

She writes an inscription, signs her name with a flourish then, because there isn’t a waiting queue, she also doodles a little tank for him, alongside her name.

“What are you doing?” Jason asks.

Bernie smiles at him. “It’s a doodle. A sort of informal drawing. Of a tank.”

“Have you ever been in a tank?”

“I’ve driven tanks, a time or two.”

Bernie’s been keeping an eye on Jason’s Aunty Serena throughout her conversation with him and she can’t help noticing the way the other woman’s attention snaps to Bernie at the mention of driving tanks.

She slides the book back across the table to him and tells him, “You can take it to the till with the rest of your books to pay for it.”

“I thought I had to pay you,” Jason says, then peers at the inscription. “‘To Jason, a most inquisitive young man with the beginnings of an eclectic mind. Yours in esteem, Berenice G Wolfe.’”

Bernie can’t help blushing a little when he reads it aloud, not least because his Aunty Serena is giving her a very admiring look.

“Thank you, Major Wolfe. I shall enjoy reading it.” Then he frowns. “What if I have questions about it?”

“Then you can email me. Do you have a computer?” She thinks to check before she goes any further.

“Yes. I use it to do my college work.”

“Good.” Bernie picks up one of the flyers that Tony had made for today’s event and carefully writes her email address across the bottom. “If you have any questions about anything – not just what I’ve written about in my book – you can email me and ask me.”

“Thank you, Major.”

“Call me Bernie,” she says.

“Thank you, Bernie. It was nice to meet you. I have to go and find the rest of my books now. Will you look after Aunty Serena for me, please?”

Bernie suppresses a chuckle at this, but nods, her eyes dancing with mirth as they meet Serena’s. “It was lovely to meet you, Jason. Take care.”

“I will. I always do.” He gives her a sharp nod, then marches off, leaving Bernie to smirk up at Serena.

“Would you like me to sign that for you?” 

“If I agree, will you have a drink with me?”

Bernie’s eyes go wide, and she feels her mouth starting to drop open, so snaps it shut quickly. “I beg your pardon?” She can’t help wondering if she’s fallen asleep and is dreaming that a beautiful brunette with a cute dimple and curves that go on forever is asking her to go for a drink.

Serena rolls her eyes. “Do you want to have a drink with me?”

“Yes. Do you often invite authors on dates?”

That earns her a smirk to rival her own earlier one. “Only when they’re gorgeous and heroic trauma surgeons.”

“Smooth,” Bernie observes.

“I like to think so.” She preens and Bernie can’t help chuckling. “Will tonight work, or are you leaving Holby on the next leg of your book signing tour?”

“There is no book signing tour, I’m afraid.”

“There isn’t? Why not?”

“Lack of demand. I’m only here, really, because Tony and Henri are two of my oldest friends and, I suppose, my literary mentors. They’re the ones who encouraged me to write a memoir of my time with the RAMC.” She grins at Serena’s obvious surprise. “I actually wrote it here at _Page Turners_. The ladies turned their empty back room into a study for me to use, and Tony made me sandwiches and cakes and endless cups of tea and coffee to sustain me.” She snorts. “Despite the evidence of today, I’m actually not that good with words so it took a lot to sustain me.”

Serena smiles. “Your words are good enough for me. You were very kind to Jason.”

Bernie shakes her head. “I treated him exactly as I would anyone else with an enquiring mind. He’s a smashing young man.”

“Thank you.”

“So, book signing or no book signing?”

“Drink, or no drink?” Serena retorts, and Bernie can’t help herself. She laughs and laughs and laughs, initially eliciting a shocked expression from Serena, then laughter of her own. 

“Do you always laugh like that?” she asks once they’ve both calmed down.

“I try very hard not to,” Bernie tells her. “Too much of the ‘goose honk’ as my late father used to call it.”

“I like it.”

“Thank you. You might be the first person I’ve ever met who does.” She shakes her head, then says, “I’d love to have a drink with you.”

“Good. Jason’s got a very strict schedule so he and I will eat at six thirty, then he’s going out with his friend Allan at seven. Shall we say seven thirty?”

Bernie nods. “That sounds good. Where do you prefer?”

“Do you know _The Maiden_ , off Queen Street?”

“I don’t, but I’m sure I can find it easily enough.”

Serena nods back. “It’s a modern pub, but in the old style. Does a very nice Shiraz.”

Bernie smirks. “I’m more of a whisky woman, myself.”

Serena sniffs, a disdainful expression on her face, but when Bernie raises her eyebrows at her, her face cracks. “I’m pretty sure they sell that, too.”

“Good. Now. Book signing?”

“Very well.” 

She holds out the book and Bernie daringly allows her fingers to brush against Serena’s as she takes it from her. That earns her a little hitch in the brunette’s breathing, which makes her smirk again. 

“Do you think you’ll find anything of interest in this memoir?” she asks.

“Well, we’re both surgeons, so I imagine so.”

“Ah. Where do you practice?”

“At Holby City General.”

“Which ward?” 

“AAU.” 

Bernie’s aware of Serena watching her as she writes an inscription, then signs with a flourish before adding a little doodle by her name.

“That’s not a tank.”

Bernie grins as she closes the cover, then holds out the book. “No, it’s not.” She sees Serena is about to open the book to read the inscription and she can’t help holding her breath as the brunette takes it in.

“‘To Serena, the lady of the Shiraz, who has an enquiring mind and an aptitude for sharp, sharp knives.’” The woman in question snorts. “I’ll give you ‘sharp, sharp knives’,” she says, but she’s smirking. “And a Rod of Asclepius. Nice work.”

“Thank you.”

“I’d better go and see if Jason’s found everything. Oh, give me your phone just in case I get held up in traffic and need to text you.” 

Bernie pulls the item in question from her jacket pocket and watches as Serena swiftly adds her name and number to Bernie’s Contacts list, then sends herself a text so she has Bernie’s number too.

“I’ll see you at seven thirty, then.”

“I’ll be there,” Bernie promises, and watches with a sense of satisfaction as the brunette goes in search of her nephew.

“Well, well,” says Tony, startling Bernie very badly as she hadn’t realised the other woman was there. “Who knew that writing a book would net you a hot date? Certainly not you.”

“Stranger things have happened,” Bernie observes.

Tony chuckles. “How much of it do you think she’ll have read by tonight?”

Bernie scoffs. “I doubt she’ll have the time.”

“You never know,” says Tony. “I came to ask if you wanted a cuppa since I’m putting the kettle on.”

“No, thank you. It’s not that long since I had that cup of coffee.”

“Alright.”

Tony takes Bernie’s empty coffee cup and the plates from her lunch, then disappears back towards the door marked ‘Staff Only’, which leads to the staircase up to their flat above the shop, and Bernie settles down to wait for any further customers. She still has more than an hour before her signing time concludes. 

As she waits, she ponders what to wear tonight. It’ll either be skinny jeans and a button down shirt with a sweater or it’ll be tailored trousers with a dress shirt and a blazer. She doesn’t wear dresses now that she’s been freed of the need to don full dress uniform.

She thinks she might ask Henri and Tony which they think would be the most appropriate outfit. The pair have a great deal more panache than Bernie will ever acquire – Henri, especially.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Bernie tries very hard not to pace as she waits for Serena outside _The Maiden_. She knows it’s her own fault for being early, but she couldn’t help it. She’d been too nervous to eat anything substantial before leaving, so had made do with a bacon butty and another slice of Tony’s chocolate cake, sent home in a plastic box to keep it safe. At least the butty should soak up the alcohol and ensure that she doesn’t have too much of a hangover tomorrow. She’s not sure why, but she has the impression that Serena is a bit of a party animal, particularly compared to Bernie, who much prefers to curl up with a good book or a good boxset, a tumbler of whisky, and her tabby cat, Tiger.

“I’m not late, am I?”

Serena’s voice catches Bernie by surprise and she turns quickly, then tries not to gape at the brunette. Serena seems equally inclined to gape, before she starts chuckling. 

“Well, well, I call that a good sign.”

“Mmhmm.” Bernie just hums her agreement as she takes in Serena’s long mackintosh worn open over a pair of tailored black trousers, a cobalt blue blouse, and a smart black blazer. Bernie is wearing a strikingly similar outfit, except she’s wearing an ivory coloured dress shirt under her blazer and a gauzy burgundy and cobalt blue silk scarf. 

“Tony picked my outfit,” she says once she’s finally certain she can speak without drooling too obviously.

“Jason approved mine,” Serena says, and they both laugh softly. 

“Shall we?” Bernie asks, gesturing at the pub.

“Let’s.” She smiles when Bernie steps forward to open the door for her, then ushers her inside with a hand at the small of her back.

Bernie suggests that Serena snag them a table while she goes to the bar for their drinks. “Shiraz, right?”

“Yes, please.”

Bernie nods, then crosses over to the bar, forcing herself to concentrate on catching the barman’s eye rather than watching Serena cross the pub – the other woman does have a very enticing sway to her hips, after all.

A few minutes later she spots Serena in a corner near the real fireplace and heads there, focusing on not bumping into anyone or anything and spilling their drinks.

“Here you go,” she says, and slides Serena’s glass in front of her before settling beside her on the velvet covered banquette and setting her own glass on the table. “Did you know they do food here?”

“I did. I’ve been here a few times before. It’s good food. Oh, wait, were you planning on eating?”

Bernie shakes her head. “No, it’s fine. I had a butty earlier.”

Serena frowns at her. “Bernie, if you want to eat you should. I don’t mind at all.”

“Are you sure?”

Serena clasps her forearm. “I’m positive. Try the fish and chips, it’s very good.”

“Okay. Thank you.” She gets to her feet again and crosses to the bar, leaving her coat folded on her seat. She returns within a few minutes. “They reckon it should be ready in about twenty minutes.”

Serena nods. “Why did you only have a butty earlier?”

Bernie shrugs. “I was – um, well – I was a bit nervous about tonight.” She peers at Serena through her unruly fringe, and the brunette reaches out to brush some locks of her hair behind her ear. 

“Why were you nervous?” she asks quietly.

“You’ll laugh.”

“I promise I won’t.”

Bernie sighs and wonders what it is about this woman that makes her want to tell her things. “This is only the third date I’ve been on.”

“Since when?”

“Well, ever, actually. But since I retired. Marcus, my ex, and I never dated. We went from best mates at university to – what is it the young folk says these days? – friends with benefits, then we got married. I spent twenty five years married to a man before I finally acknowledged that I’m a lesbian. I kissed a girl, well a woman, before I left the RAMC, but she was only a Captain and senior ranks cannot get involved with those junior to them.”

Serena nods. “Same rules apply at Holby,” she says.

“Alex thought we could have a secret relationship, sneaking around behind everyone’s backs, but I couldn’t do that. It wasn’t just morally wrong because she was my junior, but also because I was still married.” Bernie snorts. “Anyway, the IED very effectively put paid to that, and as soon as I got out of hospital, I asked Marcus for a divorce. After the decree nisi came through I went out on a date exactly twice. Both were a disaster because I was just too closed off. I got scolded by the first one for not mentioning in my profile that I was, and I quote, ‘emotionally stunted’.”

“Ouch.” Serena slides her hand up and down Bernie’s arm and she finds comfort in the gesture. “Dare I ask what happened with the second date?”

Bernie laughs a little bitterly. “She got picked up by a hot blonde half her age and they disappeared into the ladies’ for a quick shag, then the blonde took her home.”

“Double ouch,” Serena says with a wince.

“Quite,” Bernie agrees. She takes a slow sip of her whisky, then feels a sense of relief when one of the bartenders appears around the end of the bar and crosses over to their table, a plate in one hand and a napkin wrapped around some cutlery in the other.

“Here you go, love. Did you want any condiments?”

“No, thank you,” Bernie says, smiling up at her as she sets down the plate, then hands over the cutlery. “This looks and smells delicious. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome, love.”

“You’ve got an admirer,” Serena observes as Bernie unwraps her cutlery, then spreads the napkin on her lap.

“Hmm?”

“That bartender. She was definitely having trouble keeping her eyes to herself.”

Bernie can’t help wondering if that’s jealousy she can hear in Serena’s voice. She reaches over and squeezes the brunette’s forearm. “Unfortunately for her I’ve only got eyes for one woman tonight, and she’s not the one.”

She relinquishes her grasp on Serena’s arm and starts eating, savouring the chunkiness of the chips, the crispness of the batter on the melt-in-the-mouth cod, and the sharp mintiness of her peas.

“How long have you known the couple who run _Page Turners_?” asks Serena.

“My mother used to take me there as a child. But I didn’t start getting to know them in my own right until I was ten, when mama died. They very much took me under their wing after that. I used to cycle down every Saturday morning to spend my pocket money in the bookshop and I’d inevitably end up spending at least an hour seated in the kitchen of their flat above the shop, drinking milk and eating Tony’s homemade chocolate chip cookies while they talked to me about anything and everything: school, homework, life in general. I was in my teens before I realised they were a couple, and that was only because my late father, the Colonel, began to object to me spending so much time with them. I loved my father dearly, but he was a colossal bigot. More so about sexuality than race, oddly.”

She eats a few more mouthfuls of food, then adds, “Father actually tried to get them closed down when I was thirteen. Complained that they were an unnatural pair and were corrupting the city’s youth. Fortunately, no one on the city council would listen to his complaints, not least because they were the only bookshop in town. I’m sure you remember that it was quite a long time before any of the chain bookshops arrived here?”

Serena nods, then reaches out and sneaks a chip off Bernie’s plate, earning herself a scowl and an ‘Oi’ of protest. Serena just laughs and Bernie rolls her eyes in response.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

To Bernie’s surprise they have only had two drinks when Serena says she’ll have to get home.

“Jason’s schedule,” she explains apologetically. “Unless it’s a work emergency, he likes to know in advance if I’m going to be out past his bedtime of ten thirty.”

“Oh. Of course,” Bernie says, hoping that Serena cannot tell that she’s disappointed by this revelation. “Will you let me see you home?”

“Not planning on driving, are you?” Serena asks, her tone a little sharp, and Bernie frowns at her.

“Hardly, Ms Campbell. I have far too often seen the effects of drink driving to ever consider it myself. I live within walking distance, anyway, I was simply going to get a taxi for you. But I’m sure you’ll have made your own arrangements.” Bernie pulls on her mackintosh, buttoning it rapidly, then shoving her hands into her trouser pockets. “It was nice to meet you. Thank you for a pleasant evening.”

She turns on her heel and strides away, leaving Serena to fumble her way into her own coat. She can’t help feeling hurt by the other woman; she’s fifty two years old and doesn’t need to be treated like a teenager who doesn’t know any better.

By the time she reaches home, a lovely two-bedroom flat on the outskirts of the city centre her anger’s cooled somewhat and she feels a bit guilty about not waiting with Serena until her taxi had arrived. She lets herself into her home with slightly shaking hands, then hangs up her coat and pulls off her boots. She locks the door then, sock-clad, she turns out the hall light and makes her way upstairs to her room. She cleans her teeth, washes her face, and uses the toilet in the ensuite, then moves over to her bed and strips out of her clothes before pulling on her pyjamas. Once she’s dressed again, she slides under the covers, forcing herself not to think about how much she’d hoped to have Serena sliding under the other side of her duvet. Then she grabs her phone and is about to type out an apologetic text to Serena when she sees that there’s already a message waiting from the other woman.

_I’m sorry. That wasn’t how I wanted our evening to end. I shouldn’t have treated you like a child. I hope you’ll forgive me and allow me to make it up to you soon? Serena x_

Bernie heaves a heartfelt sigh before responding: _I’m sorry that I stormed off. It was rude of me and lacking in chivalry. I should’ve stayed to make sure you got your taxi okay. Bernie x_

She pulls the novel she’s currently reading off the top of her nightstand, leaving her phone lying on her lap, as she settles down to read for a bit before sleeping. She’s only managed a few paragraphs before her phone chimes again.

_Don’t worry, I use the_ Nightingales _whenever I need a taxi after drinking of an evening. They always see me home safe and sound. Serena x_

Bernie has to take a moment to recall that _Nightingales_ is a city-wide taxi scheme for women who are travelling alone of an evening. _Good to know. Sleep well, Serena. Bernie x_

_You too. Serena x_

Bernie smiles, the plugs her phone in to charge and settles down with her book. She can’t help hoping that she’ll get the chance to see Serena again quite soon and maybe next time there’ll be kissing.

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted [here](https://pers-books.tumblr.com/post/630310316713164800/6-58-for-the-berena-asks-if-youre-still-doing).


End file.
